d of the passage, was a crowd of boys in
loud talk and laughter. There was a sudden pause when the door opened,
and then a great shout of greeting, as Tom was recognized marching down
the passage.

"Hullo, Brown! where do you come from?"

"Oh, I've been to tea with the Doctor," says Tom, with great dignity.

"My eye!" cried East, "Oh! so that's why Mary called you back, and you
didn't come to supper. You lost something. That beef and pickles was no
end good."

"I say, young fellow," cried Hall, detecting Arthur and catching him by
the collar, "what's your name? Where do you come from? How old are you?"

Tom saw Arthur shrink back and look scared as all the group turned to
him, but thought it best to let him answer, just standing by his side to
support in case of need.

"Arthur, sir. I come from Devonshire."

"Don't call me 'sir,' you young muff. How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"Can you sing?"

The poor boy was trembling and hesitating. Tom struck in--"You be
hanged, Tadpole. He'll have to sing, whether he can or not, Saturday
twelve weeks, and that's long enough off yet."

"Do you know him at home, Brown?"

"No; but he's my chum in Gray's old study, and it's near prayer-time,
and I haven't had a look at it yet.--Come along, Arthur."

Away went the two, Tom longing to get his charge safe under cover, where
he might advise him on his deportment.

"What a queer chum for Tom Brown," was the comment at the fire; and it
must be confessed so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his candle, and
surveyed the new green-baize curtains and the carpet and sofa with much
satisfaction.

"I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cozy! But look
here now; you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you, and
don't be afraid. If you're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't you
say you can sing; and don't you ever talk about home, or your mother and
sisters."

Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.

"But, please," said he, "mayn't I talk about--about home to you?"

"Oh yes; I like it. But don't talk to boys you don't know, or they'll
call you home-sick, or mamma's darling, or some such stuff. What a jolly
desk! Is that yours? And what stunning binding! Why, your school-books
look like novels."

And Tom was soon deep in Arthur's goods and chattels, all new, and good
enough for a fifth-form boy, and hardly thought of his friends outside
till the prayer-bell rang.

I have already described th